


A Lack of Light

by Moorishflower



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-08
Updated: 2010-10-08
Packaged: 2017-10-12 13:04:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/125112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moorishflower/pseuds/Moorishflower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean closes his eyes there is a distinct lack of light, and the road that once led him through Heaven is gone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lack of Light

  
There are differences between them, some subtle and some…not so much. Balthazar likes to be tied up – or he likes to do the tying, it really doesn't matter. He's not picky, but it's something about the loss of power. When Dean asks, Balthazar turns his head away and refuses to give him a straight answer.

("I'm not asking you about _your_ kinks, am I? Because I have a lovely pair of green satin panties, if you want that to change.")

Castiel doesn't like being restrained. Even Balthazar putting his hands over his wrists is enough to make Castiel twist away, enough to break the mood entirely. This, though, is something that Dean understands. Balthazar has never been human. He's never been a slave to the whims of his body. Castiel never fully Fell, but he was definitely on his way down. Castiel knows what it's like to actually be helpless. To be _power_ less.

Castiel likes kisses that bruise, likes it when he can leave a mark on Dean. Likes it when he can heal the small hurts he's caused when they're done. He likes to take care of Dean just as much as he likes to hurt him. Balthazar likes slow seductions, lengthy make-out sessions, he likes to press the heel of his hand to the back of Dean's neck and hold his head still while he sucks at Dean's mouth. Soft kisses. Deep, soft kisses. He doesn't leave behind any indication that he was ever there at all. It's up to Dean to remember.

Castiel's voice is like smooth river rocks tossing against each other. Like the thing in his body is too powerful to be contained by flesh, and has to express itself in some other way. Balthazar's voice is like crushed velvet. Dean fucked a chick with an Italian accent, once – he still remembers how uninhibited she had sounded, once he got her going. How wild and new. Balthazar isn't like that. He's smoky and soft, and cultured-sounding, even when he's asking Dean to _fuck me, is that all you've got, you ape, you filthy savage, you can do better than that_ , and Castiel curls his fingers against the brand on Dean's arm and murmurs soothing nonsense into his ear. Dean is never sure if he satisfies Balthazar or not – it's kind of hard to tell, with angels, but even if he doesn't, it isn't for lack of trying. There are days when Dean has trouble standing, he hurts so much, and it isn't even his ass that's getting reamed.

("Dean, do you need assistance in returning to your motel?"

"I'm fine, Cas. Really.")

All angels, Dean knows, are precisely three-point-three-three degrees hotter than humans. It has something to do with the Holy Trinity. Something to do with numerology. Dean doesn't ask too many questions about it, even though he thinks that this is something Castiel might tell him about. It's just that…when he's sandwiched between two creatures that feel like they're constantly running a fever, he kind of loses focus.

Those are some of the differences. There are a lot of them, and Dean sometimes loses track of which applies to whom, but neither Castiel nor Balthazar seem to mind. Balthazar blames it on his being human. Castiel looks sadly at him and doesn't say the things that Dean knows he wants to, things about how male humans have an average lifespan of eighty-one years, that their cognitive development slows by twenty-five and begins to deteriorate by twenty-seven, how Dean will never be immortal and pure and vast the way angels are, because he's just a soul. Just a soul wrapped up in bone and blood. Balthazar isn't any comfort.

("When you die, can I have your car?"

And he can't, never, because the Impala belongs to Sammy when he dies, that was always the deal.)

But there are similarities, too. Just enough to make the whole experience bizarre and uncomfortable. When Dean closes his eyes, he can't tell the difference between Castiel and Balthazar. One hand bleeds into another, becomes an arm or the press of lips or the softness of hair, and Dean can't distinguish between Castiel's slightly broader palms and Balthazar's long fingers, he can't, it all feels _exactly_ the same to him. They even smell the same, that ozone smell, like heat lightning or fear. If Dean doesn't have his eyes open, everything is lost to a feeling of _other_ , and these two angels, otherwise vastly different from each other, become one many-handed creature that touches Dean with too many fingers, kisses him with too many mouths.

(Castiel understands when Dean has trouble explaining it. "You are connected to Heaven. Of course you find it difficult to distinguish between us. We are all of one Maker."

And Balthazar snorts and says, "Speak for yourself. I'm going to make him remember _me_.")

Dean loses track of the who and where and why. When he leaves the motel that he shares with Sam, things change. He forgets that there's a kid out there who's waiting for him to call. He forgets that Lisa never said _we're over_ , but when Sam had said it Dean hadn't bothered to correct him. It's easier this way. It's easier.

So why is he fucking around with angels?

Balthazar's arms curl around his waist. He and Castiel are the same height, and Dean closes his eyes and smells ozone and feels skin and heat but that's all, that's all there is. There are no landmarks to follow, here. He's lost, and his road is gone.

"Because you'll always be different from your brother," Balthazar murmurs. "Because you're the Righteous Man. Your soul is scarred, but it was never stained."

And Castiel presses up against his front; his eyes are so blue, and as long as Dean focuses on that he feels like he has something to hang on to. Something tangible, something that's his. Not Sam's, not Balthazar's, _his_.

"Because you and your brother are cut from the same cloth," he says, and leans up, and presses a kiss to the corner of Dean's mouth. "You are always turning away from the things that you don't think you deserve. But you are wrong."

But when Dean closes his eyes, he still can't see the difference between the two. There's nothing there, in the darkness, not even a light at the end of the tunnel, not even a highway to guide him home.


End file.
